Only in the mind does it end

 
One.
Here is my place, here I must
come forward and stand with spine erect.
Like letters, they too have their place in their poems and
there too they must certainly stand upright.
Some terrifyingly large faces gaze this way in unknown forms,
seeing which the little lamb cowers in the sky and
the moon too raises quite a commotion. At such times it's better to laugh quietly.
If I stand in my place right now and shatter this mountain before me,
then from the writer's pen will emerge a novel, or at the very least,
a small black letter.


Under my leadership grazes a flock of foolish sheep,
I call my memories by their names,
the trouble is, I still love humanity.
Under the bright rain of stars, I
fast in the evening, pray, and
at every nightly feast of death
I keep a special plate at my table.
If they ask, I will gently answer
that I believe in resurrection, and believing so
I have written a name on the white marble of an underground tomb.


I became wind and cast dust into the blue eyes of your sky.
Will I receive forgiveness for that offense?
I became morning and burned away all the dewdrops on your chest—I ask pardon for that crime.
I became autumn and slipped a letter onto your proud shoulder—for this too I seek forgiveness.
I became grass and touched your ankle through your boot—I seek absolution from this sin as well.
I became water and soaked your heated tears—curse me no more for this.
I became shadow and accidentally cast light upon your face—believe at least this much, that I too have died many times in the anguish of it.


Two.
Following the legendary piper of Hamelin
he blows his flute in this darkest of evenings.
I convinced him somehow by telling him that magician's tale.
I had to do this, for this city too is cursed.
In this city's gardens rats appear.
They devour lives that accumulate and decay.
The city dwellers have already seen many kinds of rats:
rats of trouble, rats of poverty,
rats of grief, rats of sin,
rats of disease and rats of death.


Together they smear everything black.
They crawl over sleeping heads
and bite human lips.
This causes people to die or go mad.
You and I cannot remove such calamity.


The one to whom I've given my innocent-looking flute will
play it magnificently with the magician's skill, woven with sorrow.
All eyes will remain on the main road only as long as
he continues walking with human curses and a billion rats in tow.
He will begin slowly, slipping and climbing up the hill of raw clay.


All the misery of the entire city will vanish when
the hideous stream of rats follows the piper and disappears.
In the evening red lights will burn in every home, there will be celebration, and
no one will ever even think to search for the piper.


Three.
Laughing in a voice different from all others, he asked me,
does shedding blood mean fighting to you?
I said, my fight is a different kind of fight—
what exactly do you want to hear from my mouth, tell me?


On that autumn morning
he opened his sorrowful eyes. He said,
before learning to recognize the color of the great death
one must silently place oneself upon the pyre
of small death's silence or lightness and burn.


I did. I saw lovers rushing somewhere this autumn!
Half-asleep I see more—my name and the line where I'd written it
have both vanished or been destroyed.
Seeing colors splash down from the mountains
I painted myself a little with those hues.
I remembered, today everything must be forgotten!
Everything must be forgiven today!


They said, listen then to fire's dance of destruction!
Your face is growing dim in the smoke, look! I remembered,
in our busyness surrounding the whirl of rich leaves
and autumn's precious expanse,
none of us remembered that wise old man.